


Stilinski-Hale for Hire

by grangerinvestigations



Series: Makeout Stakeout Agency [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is still an Alpha, Everyone Is Alive, Future Fic, M/M, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Private Eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grangerinvestigations/pseuds/grangerinvestigations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles huffed, “You’re not my boss anymore, partner, it is Stilinski-Hale, not Just-Hale, so cram it in your cramhole.”</p>
<p>“Hale-Stilinski.”</p>
<p>“Keep telling yourself that, husband-o-mine. And keep digging in that trash pile.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stilinski-Hale for Hire

“Ugh, this isn’t sexy, Derek!” Stiles groaned as he tossed a banana peel over his shoulder. He heard it land with a squelch and shuddered. The leftover pizza and dirty old underwear underneath it looked even less appealing.

“Try it with a werewolf nose, Stiles,” Derek returned. He was currently knee deep in coffee grounds, crumpled receipts and some unidentifiable goo. He hoped it _remained_ unidentifiable, too. “I’ll be sure to sign us up for sexier private detective duties next time, like sitting in our car, sitting in our office, sitting in the diner-”

“Ahh, I think something moved under my hand on its own, gross, gross, gross! Everything in my life is terrible. I blame you.”

“Yeah, cause _I_ decided blow jobs were a better idea than watching the garbage truck _before_ it made it to the fucking dump!” Derek growled, sliding in the muck. He caught his claws on a piece of cardboard before he landed face down in a pile of creepy old doll parts. He sighed as he ripped off his shredded vinyl gloves and pulled a fresh pair out of his back pocket. That was four pairs, now. Werewolf reflexes were no match for slippery sludge. He looked at the dolls again. One of them was staring right at him, and he definitely saw judgment in its eyes. Was the dump arranged for maximum ironic gross-out factor? This could _not_ be random; there was _no way_ the busted beer bottles just happened to land next to a pregnancy test box, _especially_ when they were near the dolls and other sad children’s toys. He was getting a depressing image of Beacon Hills from this place.

“It’s not _my_ fault you’re so hot I can’t concentrate on my work, _Derek_ ,” Stiles said, breaking him out of concocting more wild theories about people’s lives based on their garbage. “And see, you just proved my point. Sitting in our car _is_ sexy because then we can do it. Sexual-style. Not here, though, never here.”

“Well, shit, there go my plans for our anniversary."

"Please use your super strength and save me from this giant ball of yarn and hair I’ve somehow gotten myself tangled in. Preferably before I lose my lunch, oh my _God_. And quit sighing like you are the most put-upon man on earth. Next time multi-task, and you can watch for the truck _while_ I fellate you. Remember when I copied down that license plate while you jerked me off? That’s commitment, and man, we have sex in the cars a lot, what’s wrong with our bed?"

Derek sighed extra loud, throwing in an eye roll for good measure, but he dutifully rescued his husband from the grody mess of gook he was stuck in. The garbage was allowing him to indulge in his love for alliteration; it was the only thing good about the dump, as far as he could see and smell. Watching Stiles get caught in it really wasn’t even that funny because he wasn’t faring any better himself. He resolved to call into the Beacon Bugler in the morning. The paper had a hotline for people to anonymously praise or complain (usually complain) about anything in Beacon Hills that caught their attention. Derek was going to inform the town that they were all really, really gross and they should be ashamed of the nasty shit they threw away. Although Derek supposed that _was_ better than _keeping_ it, and really, he thought the garbage fumes were just messing with his head at that point.

"Are you sure Jason said Waller Street was in this section of the dump?" Stiles asked for perhaps the tenth time, luckily distracting Derek from forming more irate phone calls in his mind. Bizarre werewolf aging didn’t mean he had to act like Jack Lemmon in _Grumpy Old Men_. "This just looks like some down-market garbage, you know? I feel like Waller Street would have more empty caviar tins and champagne bottles. Maybe some opera glasses."

"They're doctors and lawyers, Stiles, not Gatsby. I paid Jason fifty bucks. This _better_ be the spot." He sighed - again! - and reached down into another pile. He pulled out a moldy telephone book and threw it away with a grimace. This entire thing was an exercise in futility, not to mention _disgusting_. "Are you _sure_ you saw Mrs. Morrow throw away the jewelry case? You're _positive_?"

"Jeez, Derek, kick a man while he's knee-deep in crap. Yes, I saw her throw it away. You saw the pictures I took. I was watching her for hours. It was definitely the case from Schraeder's. I would say she's an idiot for just throwing it away instead of destroying it, but I just picked up a used condom, so who's the real dummy?" He mimed throwing the condom at Derek, but dropped it when he saw the unamused look on his face. "Look, it's gotta be here somewhere. She didn’t have gloves when she threw it away, so hopefully her prints are still on it. Coupled with the pictures, it should be enough for Schraeder to press charges. At the very least I bet it will be enough to convince her to return the jewelry. Her husband isn’t going to want the scandal of having a shoplifting trophy wife, especially in an election year."

"No more dump-diving after this, Stiles, you have to promise me. I would rather just take peeping Tom pictures next time."

"Perv," Stiles said fondly. "I admit I thought a stolen jewelry caper would be a bit more glamorous, but such is the life of a hard-working private dick. Sometimes its trench coats and jazz, sometimes it’s moldy old jizz.”

“That was _terrible_.” He kept a straight face, but God, why was he still so charmed by that?

“I’m off my game, Derek, it’s yucky around here!” Stiles whined. “Can't you use your super sniffer to find this thing? Remember, _werewolf private eye_ , you are supposed to have _powers_."

"Let me see," Derek said. "Maybe I can somehow block the nauseating stench of the dump to find a single jewelry case that has no smell. I bet I could probably sniff out a particular cat turd from Sammy’s litter box, too."

"Gross, and no one likes sarcasm, Derek," Stiles said.

"That's literally your favorite thing about me," Derek observed.

"Nope, abs," Stiles said. He reached his hand into another pile. He felt something hard and pulled it out triumphantly.

"Excellent, you've found an alarm clock," Derek said, crossing his arms. “Take it home and use it; maybe you’ll actually get to work on time.”

Stiles thought his husband was trying to look cool and above it all, but considering he had someone's old chili on his jeans it wasn't really working for him. Stiles still thought he looked hot, though - how whipped was he? Lydia would be embarrassed for him, but he figured Scott, at least, would think it was sweet. Of course, Scott thought it was sweet when Sarah projectile vomited, too, so maybe his judgment was slightly off. Plus, Stiles was _always_ to work on time. Well, when he and Derek rode together, anyway, and that wasn’t the point!

Stiles huffed, “You’re not my boss anymore, partner, it is Stilinski-Hale, not Just-Hale, so cram it in your cramhole.”

“Hale-Stilinski.”

“Keep telling yourself that, husband-o-mine. And keep digging in that trash pile.”

Derek looked like he was going to snark some more when something caught his attention. He cocked his head to the side - _not_ like a _dog_ , Stiles, _god_ \- and turned toward the entrance of the landfill. He let out a whistle. "He is unbelievable."

"What is it?" Stiles asked. "Can you hear Jason taking pictures? I swear to God, if he puts them on Instagram or something-"

"He wouldn't dare," Derek said. "No, it's your crazy cat. Look at him coming - you'd think this was a kitty palace and he’s prancing on the red carpet."

Stiles looked where Derek was pointing and beamed when he saw a fluffy yellow tail sticking straight up; it was moving Iike a shark's fin, gliding through the garbage. " _Our_ crazy cat, thank you very much. Sammy! Good boy, how did you find your daddies here?"

"Sammy would find us even if it we were _buried_ beneath all this trash," Derek said, a note of pride in his voice. "Whatcha doing, buddy? Someone encroaching on our territory? Did you see something out of place back home? Or did you just miss us?” He reached over and scratched Sam behind the ears and was rewarded with a swish of the tail; high praise from Sam Spade.

Stiles snorted; Derek could “your cat” all he wanted, but he was as big a mushball for their kneazle-cat as Stiles was. Sammy had even been a groomsmen in their wedding last spring, and he had looked extremely handsome in his little black bow tie. He was also more spoiled than any lapdog or even child could be. Even Prada was not as revered as Sammy.

Sam meowed his patented “you are ignorant humans who would be lost without me” meow and nimbly jumped over to the pile next to Stiles. He allowed himself to be petted for a moment, and then disappeared from view, digging quickly and deeply into the crud. He crawled back out a minute later with a red velvet jewelry case clamped lightly between his teeth.

“You are worth your weight in tuna, Sammy Spade!” Stiles crowed, throwing his arms up in victory. “Just for that, you get some ice cream tonight too, buddy boy. Oh man, I was not up for much longer here.”

Derek was staring at Sam in frank adoration; it was a look he usually reserved for Stiles, but Stiles figured Sammy had earned it. “You are the best,” Derek said simply. “Come on, let’s get out of this cesspool. I’ll call Schraeder tomorrow morning and take the case in to be fingerprinted when your dad gets to work. You take Sammy to the park tomorrow and let him chase birds or something. Maybe he can organize the squirrels into a more cohesive unit; who the hell knows. He needs a major reward, though, because he is the single most helpful creature I have ever come across and if I could find some way to make him my emissary instead of Deaton I would.”

Sammy purred, swishing his tail proudly back and forth some more. He didn’t have a speck of garbage anywhere on him.

X X X X

“Derek, stop,” Stiles moaned helplessly, his face pressed against the wall of the shower. Derek was plastered to his back. They had climbed into the shower as soon as they got home, and as usual, things escalated quickly.

“You really want me to stop?” Derek asked, nipping down the back of his neck. His hands slid down Stiles’s back and gripped his ass. He rocked against him and reached for the lube on the shelf.

Stiles slapped his hand. “No, come on, I’m still sort of gross. Wash my hair for me, then take me to bed. No shower sex, no car sex. Bed sex, like civilized married people.”

“I’m not a civilized person, I’m a vicious werewolf,” Derek growled into his ear, still holding him against the wall. “You love shower sex.”

“I love all sex with you,” Stiles said, slithering out from under Derek and turning around to face him. He threw his hands around his neck and leaned in for a kiss, pulling back before it could get too filthy. “Right now, though, I am very keen on bed sex.”

“Fine,” Derek huffed. He grabbed the shampoo from the shelf, giving the lube a sad little shake of his head.

“Are you communicating with the lube?” Stiles asked. “Don’t worry, you can still get up close and personal with the stuff in the bedroom. I swear this bottle won’t get jealous.” He leaned his head down and let Derek pour shampoo on it. He loved having Derek wash his hair (his everything, really, he just loved having Derek’s hands on him). Although their shared showers were often a prelude to fooling around, he also enjoyed the sex-free intimacy of washing one another. Of course, if he were being honest, he loved everything about their lives together. He smiled down at his wedding ring and grabbed a washcloth so he could return the favor.

“Kiss me again, then let’s hurry up and get to the sexing.”

Derek complied. “I hope I get these sweet nothings when we’ve been married thirty years. I’d hate to think you’d stop saying romantic things like ‘get to the sexing,’ ‘stick it in already,’ and ‘bend over.’”

“Yeah, because ‘oh God, get your tongue deeper’ is the height of romance.”

“I tacked ‘handsome husband’ on the end of that, it was totally romantic,” Derek said. He gave him another kiss, grinning against his lips. “How the hell did I live with you all those years without kissing you?”

“Better private eyes than you and me couldn’t even figure that one out.”

They finished up their shower quickly, forgoing towels and stumbling into their bedroom, hands and mouths all over one another.

Stiles turned toward the bed and stopped. Right in the center of the bed was the pair of handcuffs and bottle of lube that lived in their bedside drawer. Stiles looked back at Derek and snickered at the look on his face.

“I love that cat,” Stiles said, “but we have _got_ to have a talk with Sam about boundaries.”

Derek nodded, snorted out his own laugh and pushed him onto the bed. “He does have some excellent ideas, though.”


End file.
